by Kaje Harper
John sighed. “Detective Carstairs.”
“I got a call,” she said. “Arson, gunshots, buildings burning down on campus. And here you are.”
“You have to excuse me,” John said absently. “I need to get to the hospital and see my son and… Ryan.”
Her face became a little less sardonic. “Are they hurt?”
“Smoke inhalation. Cuts. I don’t know. I need to go find out.”
“It was Ryan Ward who called 911, right?”
“Yes. Because Mark was inside the fire, but he called me instead.”
Carstairs sighed. “Okay. Listen, wait five minutes and I’ll drive you to the hospital. I need statements from all of you.”
John caught her arm as she turned away. “Mark said it was Dr. Crosby, the guy who runs the lab, who was setting it on fire and shot Patrick.”
“Someone saw him?”
“My son. Yes.”
“Did he know why?”
“I… we didn’t get that far. It was more important to get them out.”
She nodded. “Okay. Five minutes. I’ll brief my officers here, and then we’ll go see what the real story is.” She looked up at the flames emerging from the upper floors of Smythe. “My car is over there, the blue Taurus. Go sit in it, stay outside the perimeter. Try not to get blood on my seats.”
John half expected that with his luck the car would be locked, but when he tried the handle it opened. He slid in, keeping the blanket around himself. The interior was blessedly warm. He leaned his head against the door and watched as yet another fire truck arrived. The crews leaped out, immediately busy with hoses. At least the hydrant clearly had water. Police officers were stringing tape barriers, to keep onlookers back. In the quiet inside the car, the scurrying men and equipment seemed distant and unreal.
He jumped as the driver’s door opened and Carstairs swung herself in. She started the car with a muffled curse.
“You haven’t found Dr. Crosby?” John guessed.
“Not as far as I know,” she said. “Although it would help if we even knew what he looks like. His staff page is down. Shit, what a mess. It makes no sense. I hope your boy has some good explanation for what’s going on here.”
John shrugged. Right now he didn’t need an explanation. He just needed Mark and Ryan healthy, safe, home. Hell, he’d settle for safe and in the hospital for now. Safe and anything.
As she pulled off campus onto the main road, Carstairs turned to him, opened her mouth and then shut it again. She shook her head. “No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I’m not going to take some kind of half-assed statement while I’m driving. I can wait fifteen minutes. It won’t kill me.”
John leaned his head back. “I don’t know anything anyway.” Except how close I came to losing it all.
“Well I hope to hell someone does,” she muttered.
Twice on the drive she took brief phone calls, her end a series of okay’s and get-back-to-me-with-that’s. Once she called someone to get hold of Patrick’s contact information from the student-records office. John closed his eyes and counted breaths. Yelling at her would not make this woman drive faster, and her attention was already divided.
The emergency room was busy, but not frantic. It took Carstairs a few moments to work her way up to the desk, but then her badge, and John’s explanation that Mark was a minor, got them back into the treatment area. Mark and Ryan were in the same cubicle. Ryan lay face down on the bed. Mark was seated in a chair, but an oxygen mask still covered his face.
“Hey, guys,” John said, as steadily as he could.
Mark’s eyes brightened and he smiled through the plastic. Ryan’s fingers waved in his direction. A doctor was bending over Ryan’s shoulders. He straightened, and turned.
“Excuse me. Who are you?”
“I’m the boy’s father,” John said.
“I thought he was.” He pointed to Ryan. “That’s why we put them both in here.”
“I’m the boy’s other father,” John said firmly. “How are they?”
The doctor glanced at Mark, who pulled down the mask. “He’s my real dad,” Mark said. “Ryan’s like my stepdad.”
“Ah.” The doctor shrugged. “Your son is fine. No burns and his oxygen levels are good. The mask is a precaution. We’ll send him down to radiology in a bit, to check his lungs on an X-ray, but I expect he’ll be able to go home in a few hours.”
“And Ryan?”
Ryan lifted his head. “I’ll be able to go home in a few hours too.”
“You shut up. I’m asking the doctor.”
“Um, that’s privileged information,” the doctor said tentatively.
“I’m fine,” Ryan said. “A few scorch marks, and the cut on my leg, which I don’t really feel since it went through the old scars. I’ll leave when Mark’s ready.” He coughed harshly.
“He should stay the night on oxygen and monitoring,” the doctor said. “The cut needs sutures and I want to run IV fluids. He lost some blood.”
“I freaking hate hospitals,” Ryan muttered.
“Tough shit.” John stepped over to him and looked down at Ryan’s bare back. Youch! Patches of small red blisters dotted his shoulders. “You’ll follow doctor’s orders if I have to sit on you.”
Ryan rolled an eye at him, and John could almost hear the comment Ry bit back. Something like, “Sounds good to me.” It sounded good to him too. But once Ryan was healthy, not now.
“What can I do?” John asked.
“You can tell your son to talk to me,” Carstairs interrupted.
“And who are you?” the doctor demanded.
She flipped her badge at him. “York PD. I have a man supposedly running around out there shooting people and setting fires. If this kid won’t die without the mask, I need his statement.”
The doctor hesitated, but then said, “He should be okay. But, Mark, if you feel out of breath or your chest is tight, you put that oxygen right back on.”
Mark nodded. Slowly, he slid the elastic off his head and lowered the mask to his lap. John grabbed the last chair and sat at his son’s side. The doctor returned to bandaging Ryan, although the tilt of his head said he couldn’t resist listening. Carstairs glanced at him for a moment. “Can that wait?”
“I’m almost done. I do have other patients.”
Carstairs heaved an exaggerated sigh, but asked nothing until the dressing was taped into place. The doctor paused at the doorway. “Someone will be coming to take both of these men down for X-rays,” he said.
“I understand.”
“These walls are fabric. I can’t keep people away from here. This is a hospital, not a police station.”
“I’ll live,” Carstairs said. “Just step outside.”
He left and she drew the curtain across behind him. Then she turned to Mark, notebook in hand. “All right, kid. Let’s hear the story.”
“Um, where do you want me to start?”
“How about your name?”
“Marcus Barrett.”
“John Barrett is your father?”
“Yes.”
“John, I have your permission to speak with your son?”
“Yes,” John said, “if he agrees.”
“I want to,” Mark said. “It’s so weird. I don’t understand what happened. Someone needs to do something.”
“So,” Carstairs said. “Start at the beginning. You’re too young to be a college student. What were you doing on campus?”
“I play in a band,” Mark said. “The other three guys are at Bonaventure, so we practice on campus.”
“So you came for practice?”
“Yeah. Four o’clock, like usual. But there was a note on the board that Calvin couldn’t make it. He’s our bass and vocals and he kind of leads the band. So when Gordon showed— he’s drums— he decided not to stick around. But Patrick got there, and we’re writing a song together. So we decided since we were there anyway, we’d work for a while.”
<
br /> “You’re referring to Patrick Remington, the boy who was shot?”
“Yeah. He plays flute and sax, and he writes the song lyrics. We do the music together.”
“So you were in a practice room, writing a song. How did you end up in Smythe Hall? That’s not the music building.”
Mark hesitated and glanced at John.
“Go ahead and tell her,” he said.
“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
John shook his head. “Patrick has bigger problems tonight. If it might help figure out this mess and catch Crosby, you need to tell the truth.”
Mark paused a moment longer and then nodded. He looked steadily back at the detective. “Patrick’s been weird lately. Sometimes he’s off the music, or he’ll talk like he’s spaced out. The other guys said it’s just Patrick, he gets a little disconnected, but… it wasn’t right. We worked for a while on the song, but it was one of his spacey days. He kept changing the lyrics, and they made less and less sense. Then he just put down his flute and started wandering around the room.
“I asked if he wanted to pack it in, and he started telling me about his girlfriend. How she dumped him. Then he said it was because he was ugly. Because his acne was coming back. Which, yeah, he had a few zits on his forehead, but I just had to laugh. I said, ‘God, look at me before you complain.’ And he said he knew the fix for that.
“He said the guy he worked for, Crosby, had a medication. It worked great. He said he used to look worse than me, but Crosby let him use this stuff he invented. It’s not even on the market. He said him and this girl, Alice, that worked in the lab, they both got to try the stuff out. And it worked great. But then Crosby wouldn’t give him any more.”
Mark glanced at John. “He was all upset about it. Crosby wouldn’t give him any more blue gel. He called it blue gel. He started saying how he needed it to get his girl back. I was like, ‘Come on, man, she wouldn’t dump you for three zits.’ I mean, there had to be other reasons. But he swore he’d get her back. And then he said I should try it too. That it was like magic. And he could get some for both of us.”
He frowned. “I guess I should’ve left or something. But he said the stuff was in the lab. And he had the keys. It wasn’t like we were breaking in. He worked there. And he was going to go, no matter what I said. I was worried he might… I don’t know. So we went over to Smythe.”
“Was the building open?” Carstairs asked.
“No. Patrick had a key. He unlocked the door. We went in and then up to the sixth floor, to the lab.”
“Was the power on then?”
“Yes. We took the elevator. It was kind of dark, ’cause by then it was probably six thirty and not many people were around, being Friday and all. But there were lights in the hallways and stuff. We went up to the lab, and Patrick had a key and we went in.” He looked at Carstairs anxiously. “We didn’t break in. Patrick had the key.”
“I understand,” she said. “Then what?”
“Patrick started looking for this blue-gel stuff. He was opening cabinets and just looking everywhere. It’s a big lab. He was being dumb, looking in the same place four times, all random and shit. After a while, I went and sat by the windows and just watched him. Because he couldn’t even tell me what the stuff looked like. I mean, blue gel, sure, but not if it would be in a bottle or a tub or anything. Then the lights went out.”
“What did you do?”
“I wanted to get out of there,” Mark said. “I was kind of freaked. But Patrick said it was just a power failure. The emergency lighting was on. And Patrick had one of those key-chain lights. So he kept on searching. And then Dr. Crosby came in.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No. Just, Patrick said, ‘Hey, Dr. Crosby.’ Like it was all normal for him to be there fucking around in the lab in the dark. And the man said, ‘Patrick. What are you doing here?’—kind of angry. And Patrick said, ‘I’m looking for my blue gel. I just want a little more. It’s not fair to take it away.’ And Crosby was all mad, and started cussing him out.”
“Did he say why he was mad?”
“Just ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ Stuff like that. And yeah, he said Patrick would wreck everything. And then he shot Patrick.”
“Shot him? You’re sure?”
“I saw the gun,” Mark said. “I heard it. I don’t know if he hit Patrick because Patrick, like, ran out the door. And Crosby ran after him, and there were more shots.”
“Loud, soft, how many?”
“Shit, I don’t know,” Mark said. “A bunch? Four? Close by and then further away.”
“And you didn’t call 911 or try to get away.”
“I was scared, okay?” Mark shook his head. “I couldn’t believe it. Yeah, I was stupid. But he had a gun, and there was only the one door, and I was scared, and it happened so fast. And then he came back. Crosby.”
“How long after he shot at Patrick?”
“It seemed like just a few seconds, a minute, I’m not sure!”
“You’re doing fine,” Carstairs said soothingly. “You had every right to be scared. Then what happened?”
“I ran and hid in the other part of the lab when I heard him come back, near the windows, behind the end of the counter. The guy was muttering about his work, it was all ruined, all for nothing. And then he lit the burner thingies and he started to set other stuff on fire. Like, he lit up all these piles of papers and stuff. Fire everywhere. Then it got noisier and I thought maybe he wouldn’t hear me. So I called my dad.”
John put in, “I was in my office on campus, not far away. Ryan was with me. We called 911. I ran the two blocks and got into the building, and found Patrick on the stair. Then the alarms finally went off. The fire was spreading.”
Carstairs said, “The fire chief told me someone tampered with the alarm system. The water main to the building was shut off and so was the main power breaker, but not the gas.”
“To make it burn better.”
“Presumably. Mark, did you see Crosby clearly when he was setting the fire? Could you identify him if you saw him again?”
“I don’t know. I was hiding, and just kind of peeking now and then, and the light was bad, all dim and flickery. I don’t know.”
“Okay. So Crosby was lighting fires. Then what?”
“Then the alarms went off, and I think he left.”
“You don’t know?”
“I was hunkered down in the other room. I was hiding, until Ryan came.”
“You didn’t leave the lab?”
“I couldn’t. It was all on fire. I couldn’t get across. I was trapped in the back room by the windows.”
“But you did get out.”
“Ryan came. He helped me. We went out the window, and back in the next floor. And then down the stairs.”
“But if you couldn’t get out, how did Ryan get in?”
“I don’t know.” Mark looked over at Ryan. “It was all on fire. There was no way out, and I knew I was going to die. And then he just… walked through it.”
“I ran like a fucking bat out of hell through it,” Ryan said from his bed. “Stayed low and moved fast. I knew what I was doing. The kid didn’t have the resources to get out, but I could get in. And then we were both trapped.”
“So you found a rope and climbed out the window!” Carstairs sounded disbelieving.
“Made a rope out of Crosby’s lab coats,” Ryan said. “Saved by bad fashion sense. If he’d had the short jacket style, we’d have been screwed. There was just enough fabric to do the job.”
John bit his lip hard. In the dark he hadn’t made out what Ryan and Mark had used to climb out on. He’d assumed rope. Knotted lab coats. His stomach hurt.
“And you had nothing to do with setting the fires?” Carstairs said to Mark.
“No! God, no.” He shuddered. “Why would I try to burn myself to death?”
“Maybe you miscalculated. Like painting yourself into a corner.”
“N
ot possible,” Ryan said firmly. “Even if Mark was the type, which he’s not, the progression of the fire moved from the center of the room to the door. Mark was on the other side of the flames. He couldn’t have done it. The arsonist worked toward the door and left that way.”
“And I should accept your analysis because?”
“Eight years on SDFD duty. I know fires.”
“And Mark wouldn’t know where to shut off the building water supply, or the power,” John added.
“You would.” Carstairs sighed. “Okay, I’m just playing the game here. I believe you, kid. For what it’s worth. Although I’ll be happier if Patrick survives and corroborates your story.”
“Do you know…?” John hesitated.
“He’s in surgery,” Carstairs said. “They’d have paged me if he died, but otherwise I don’t know.”
“That’s something.” Ryan coughed raggedly.
“Put that oxygen back on,” John told him. When Ryan didn’t immediately comply, John stood and bent over him.
Ryan looked up at him. “Did I tell you how good you looked at the bottom of those steps when I came out?”
“Better than you did at the top of them.” John put the mask over his stubborn lover’s nose and ran a finger across his cheek. He saw Ryan’s eyes cut to Carstairs. But when he would have pulled back, Ryan reached up and pressed John’s hand against his face with his own palm. His eyes smiled.
“So, Barrett, I need your statement,” Carstairs said.
“Sure,” John said, not looking away from those bloodshot green eyes. He looks like hell, and he’s still the hottest thing on the planet. “Ask away. But I didn’t do much.”
“Except carry Patrick Remington out of the building, from what I hear.”
“Yeah, that.” But Ryan walked through fire to save my kid.
Chapter Seventeen
By the next afternoon, Ryan pretended to read while stretched out on the couch, but he was already heartily sick of being on crutches again. His leg didn’t even hurt that much. It was tempting to just use it, but he was being good. The doctor had reluctantly released him, against medical advice, but warned him that abusing the leg might delay healing, and the last thing Ryan needed was to weaken that calf muscle any more. John would give him hell if he so much as put his foot to the ground. Ryan didn’t plan to give him that kind of leverage.